


Forgetting Reason

by Kiltar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiltar/pseuds/Kiltar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The friendship between John and Sherlock begins to change...The final scenes of "The Great Game" and what happens afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock’s footsteps echoed loudly as he cautiously walked through the faded blue door into the watery stillness of the darkened swimming pool. His eyes darted from corner to corner as he started to slowly pace in a circle, continually searching with his eyes for the person who had so intrigued him with their criminal elegance during the past few days. Briefly he thought of his colleague and friend, John Watson, glad that he was safe away from the hoped for confrontation this evening. As distasteful as the mere thought of John spending time in the company of that dull Sarah woman was, at least his absence tonight would afford Sherlock the opportunity to meet his adversary without feeling the need to protect his friend should things turn sour. He began to speak to the presence he could feel in the dimly-lit room with him, hoping to draw his rival out of the shadows.

“I’ve brought you a little getting-to-know-you present.” He said confidently as he raised the Government Issue thumb-drive above his head with his right hand. “That’s what it’s all been for isn’t it? All your little...puzzles? Making me dance? All to distract me from this...” His voice peters out as the metallic clunk of a fire exit door opening has him looking over his shoulder towards the sound. As John steps into view Sherlock can feel his heart skip a beat and the blood drain from his face. John is wrapped up warmly against the biting cold London night, the hood of his puffy khaki jacket pushed back and his hands in his pockets.

_No! This can’t be possible! _Sherlock thinks as his mind goes into overdrive trying to reconcile the kind, moral man who had become his only friend with the cold-hearted criminal mastermind who has been taunting him. John stands there calmly, his face carefully neutral.

 “Evening” John says quietly, his voice barely echoing in the large tiled room. “This is a turn up isn’t it Sherlock?” The taller man’s breath catches in his throat as he fixes his gaze onto his friend’s face and takes a hesitant step towards him.

“John” he breathes, “What the hell...?” His mind whirls as he tries to think back through all of their interactions, wondering how he could have missed a vital clue. _How could I have not seen this? How could John have deceived me for so many weeks without me realizing?_ All of these thoughts fly through Sherlock’s formidable brain in a second before John speaks again

“Bet you didn’t see this coming” he continues in a curiously dead voice, shifting his weight slightly and with his hands still in his pockets, he spreads his jacket wide exposing the arsenal of explosives strapped firmly to his chest. As a wavering red dot of light flickers over John’s chest Sherlock is suddenly hit with an intense feeling of relief that John isn’t Moriarty and then the realization of the very real danger his friend, and he himself are now in. He begins to reconsider the wisdom of arranging this meeting, this confrontation, with Moriarty. John continues to parrot Moriarty’s words as Sherlock desperately tries to think of a way out of this situation without himself or John being blown up or otherwise losing important parts of their respective anatomies.

“I gave you my number – I thought you might call” The nasal, whining voice carries across the water and echoes off the tiles. As James “Jim” Moriarty introduces himself in an overly theatrical, arrogant manner Sherlock finds himself less eager to meet this criminal genius than he had anticipated. Suddenly the most important thing is not solving the riddle of Moriarty but getting out alive with his flatmate firmly in tow.

Moriarty continues to ramble on in his incredibly irritating voice, singing his own praises and throwing innuendos around. Sherlock struggles to maintain the facade of interest in the small, weasely-looking man who has been the mastermind behind the past few weeks of cases, and who knows how many cases prior to that. Sherlock’s eyes constantly flicker toward John, who is standing stoically unmoving barely three feet away from him. He knows that he must continue to feign fascination in Moriarty if he is going to have a chance at getting them through this alive, he needs to let him believe that he holds all the cards, that Sherlock and John are no real threat – of course in their current circumstance, even with the revolver, they really are no threat to Moriarty.

“...it has been fun though, playing these little games.” Moriarty is still talking when Sherlock tunes back in, “Playing Jim from IT, playing gay – did you like the touch with the underpants?”

“People have died” Sherlock points out blandly.

“That’s what people DO!” Moriarty’s face contorts as he screams the last word as though possessed with multiple personalities. As the word echoes off the walls Sherlock hears the unmistakeable metallic clang of a door somewhere closing. He thinks it unlikely that Moriarty heard it over the sound of his own tantrum and so Sherlock begins to formulate a plan.

 “Boring! If I’d wanted that I could have gotten it another way” Moriarty says with a sneer as he throws the military thumb-drive Sherlock passes to him into the swimming pool nonchalantly. While he is distracted John leaps forward and grapples him into a stranglehold, telling Sherlock to run. The Consulting Detective is momentarily paralysed by the implications of this turn of events. No-one has ever willingly offered to sacrifice themselves for his life, he has never felt as though someone would do all they could to protect him – sure he thought that Lestrade would _probably_ do his best to diffuse a situation in which Sherlock found himself in mortal peril but considered it extremely unlikely that he would value Sherlock’s life over that of his own. John had just demonstrated in no uncertain terms that he was every bit as dedicated to preserving Sherlock’s life as he was his own – more so in fact. If Sherlock’s thinking was correct, and is almost always was, then the threat is not quite as dire as it appeared, nevertheless John did not know that and still he offered his life in exchange for his colleague’s.

While these chaotic thoughts ran riot through Sherlock’s head, he noticed John’s eyes widen and Moriarty’s smile grow moments before he glimpsed the tell tale sparkle of a red dot of light reflecting off his hair and briefly into his eyes. John hurriedly let go of the slender criminal and stepped back as the light dots moved away from Sherlock and back to his explosive-packed chest. Moriarty laughed and spilled forth yet more self-congratulatory commentary as well as the obligatory death threats before finally turning to walk away with a jaunty farewell, somehow managing to get the final verbal parry in as the door clanged shut behind him.

As soon as the echoes of the closed door fade Sherlock drops the gun and scrambles to John’s side with no sign of his usual grace.  He drops to one knee and desperately fumbles with the buckles on the explosive harness, finally tugging the jacket and the explosives free and throwing it across the tiles. He grabs John’s shoulders and spins him around to face him.

“Are you alright?!... ARE YOU ALRIGHT!?” Sherlock demands frantically while leaning close to John’s face and peering intently into his eyes. John is pale and shaking slightly under Sherlock’s hands. “John, I need to know that you are OK” Sherlock all but begs as he shakes his friend gently by the shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah – I’m fine” John finally says faintly, chest heaving as the adrenaline of the past few minutes slowing begins to recede. His knees feel weak suddenly and he stumbles forward against Sherlock, the taller man quickly wrapping his long arms around his shoulders to steady him. John rests his forehead against the slightly scratchy cloth of Sherlock’s lapel as he regains his balance, feeling oddly comfortable with another man’s arms around him, _Not very surprising considering the near-death experience I’ve just had_ he reassures himself. John straightens up and gently extracts himself. “Are you alright Sherlock?” he asks as he takes a few steps to the wall and gently lowers himself down into a crouch against a tile pillar.  Sherlock is pacing agitatedly back and forth, rubbing the muzzle of the now retrieved revolver against his head, messing up his already unruly dark curls.

“Me? Yeah fine, fine...” he replies distractedly, still moving about jerkily. He takes a deep breath, “That, uh, that thing that you, um... that thing you offered to do....that was, er, that was...good” he finally spits out while hesitantly looking at his crouched companion from the corner of his eyes.

“I’m glad no one saw that” John murmurs, trying to lighten the moment.

“Hmmm?”

“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool” John says with a wry smile as he adjusts his cardigan back onto his shoulders, “People might talk.”

“People do little else” Sherlock grins as he offers a hand to help John up. “And I wouldn’t be so sure about not having an audience John...” his words are cut off abruptly as they hear the bouncing footfalls of Moriarty as he strolls back into the room closely followed by a legion of small red dots of light appearing on both of their chests. Sherlock looks up towards the back gallery to where the marksmen must be.

“Sorry boys! I’m soooo changeable!” Moriarty sing-songs as John and Sherlock spin toward him. They are standing side-by-side, arms only inches apart as Moriarty talks about their impending death. “I simply can’t let you continue.”

Sherlock glances at John, trying to communicate his plan to him with his eyes. John blinks once and nods very slightly before shifting several small paces away from his companion, bracing his legs as he prepares to do what he thinks Sherlock was silently asking him to do. Sherlock parries more words with Moriarty and then dramatically points the revolver towards the explosive-loaded jacket still lying in a crumpled, sinister heap on the floor between them. A tense couple of seconds pass while Sherlock and Moriarty eyeball each other then Sherlock tenses and shouts “NOW!” as he squeezes the trigger.


	2. Chapter 2

John springs into action as soon as Sherlock shouts, his military training allowing his body to react immediately, throwing himself bodily at Sherlock sending them both flying across the tiles and landing with a splash in the water. John barely glimpses Moriarty running at full speed towards the back fire exit door to escape the massive explosion which they have just triggered.

John doesn’t see how far he gets before the warm, heavily chlorinated water rushes into his mouth and eyes rendering him all but blind and deaf. He can vaguely see a bright yellow flash of light expand above the water as he pushes himself further down into the water, his movements less than effective as his limbs are tangled with Sherlock’s. John knows the safest way to avoid the shockwave of a big explosion is to get as far under the water as possible for as long as possible, but as he slammed into Sherlock’s body almost all the air in his lungs was pushed out so he doesn’t think he can stay underwater for long.  He can see Sherlock’s blurry shape next to him, his hair floating wildly around his head, a look of absolute panic in his eyes. He is struggling to get loose from John and desperately flails his arms and legs, trying to get away. John untangles himself immediately, his vision starting to blur as he uses up the small amount of oxygen in his lungs with the action. He can see his friend’s struggles slowing, his movements becoming un-coordinated as he desperately tries to swim for the surface but going the wrong direction. John realizes that Sherlock must have run out of air almost immediately they hit the water and is now so oxygen deprived and disorientated that he doesn’t know which way is the surface. As the other man’s movements slow and then stop completely John dives down to grasp his forearm and begins to desperately drag him towards the surface, hoping that the worst of the explosion above them has passed. He struggles to pull Sherlock’s dead weight _No! I won’t even think of the word dead in connection to him!_ John thinks as he concentrates on swimming the last few feet. His head breaks the surface and he gulps a huge lungful of air before dragging Sherlock’s head above the water. He waits for Sherlock to take a deep breath, and nothing happens. His dark head simply lolls in a sickly fashion onto John’s shoulder, rivulets of water running down his face from the sopping locks of his hair plastered across his forehead. _Come on Sherlock! Breath damn it!_ John thinks desperately as he adjusts his grip on Sherlock to wrap his arms around the taller man’s waist, struggling to tread water while keeping Sherlock’s head above the water and trying to squeeze his arms together as forcefully as possible trying to push some of the water from Sherlock’s lungs.

Suddenly he hears his name being yelled by a half-familiar voice just above him. There, standing on the edge of the swimming pool almost directly above John’s head is Mycroft, his arms reaching out towards him and his brother. He clumsily manages to pass Sherlock’s body over to his brother who, displaying an unlikely amount of strength, pulls him out of the water and onto the tiles beside the pool. In a matter of moments John hauls himself out of the water and shoving Mycroft aside he quickly grabs Sherlock’s left wrist and searches for a pulse. Feeling a faint beat beneath his fingers he sees that Sherlock is still unconscious and not breathing. With fingers laced together John pushes down on Sherlock’s lower sternum forcefully with both hands, moving back quickly as a gout of water gushes from his patient’s mouth and he begins to cough and hack. Gently rolling him onto his side John leans over Sherlock’s body from behind, watching his face to see the colour slowly return to waxy cheeks and blue-tinged lips with a sigh of relief. He rubs soothing circles on his friend’s back as he coughs and vomits up the last of the water from his lungs, breathing easier now though still far from recovered with his eyes closed, seemingly completely oblivious to his surrounds. John considers that he is probably in a state of utter exhaustion following the stresses of drowning and then being revived on his body. Mycroft clears his throat suddenly, startling John who had been so absorbed in attending Sherlock that he hadn’t noticed the other man’s presence beside him.

“He seems to be out of immediate danger now Doctor Watson so I’ll leave him in your no-doubt capable hands while I attend my men” Mycroft says before quietly adding “Thank you John” with a meaningful look at his brother’s rescuer. “Your actions tonight take a world of worry from my shoulders – it is good to know that he has such a capable partner watching over him on those occasions when I cannot”.

With that Mycroft stands, running his hands swiftly over the front of his immaculate jacket and waistcoat before striding over to the knot of men in expensive-looking business suits who are talking in low tones to one another. With a jolt John realizes that the scene of devastation he has been expecting has spectacularly failed to appear and aside from a slight smell of ozone-scented smoke there is no indication that any altercation has taken place, let alone an explosion the size of the one that jacket full of explosives should have set off. He looks around more carefully, trying without success to think like Sherlock and deduce what, precisely, has occurred.

“There never was an explosion you know” Sherlock slurs throatily from his position on the floor in front of John. “The flash of light and sound were just from a ‘flash-bang grenade’ one of Mycroft’s men threw as I fired the gun.” His eyes are still closed and aside from the slight movement of his lips he would appear to the casual observer to be unconscious still.

“Wha? Huh?” John blurts out. “How the hell did you know that Mycroft was here? How could you have possibly guessed...oh wait, I see.” A dawning realization comes to him, “You planned this out with your brother didn’t you? You lured Moriarty here and Mycroft and his men were all geared up to take him out. I see...” He feels incredibly stupid and irritated to once again have been left out of Sherlock’s plans, once again left to fumble about in the dark simply trying to survive and follow the ‘Boy Genius’ in his complicated investigations. “Well I can only assume that as you essentially drowned and Moriarty got away that your grand plan didn’t quite go to plan hmm?” John says bitingly as the fear and horror of the past couple of hours finally breaks through his usually tolerant demeanour. He pushes himself up off his knees and stands with his arms crossed looking around for someone to leave Sherlock in the care of before going home and trying to wrap his head around this evening.

“No John”, Sherlock rasps as loudly as he can, his throat still raw from the chlorinated water so recently forcefully expelled from it. “There was no plan with Mycroft...” But John doesn’t appear to have heard him as he looks towards the group of men now huddling around the explosive-lined jacket which still lies, un-touched on the tiled floor. Sherlock begins to feel slightly panicky as his body won’t obey his commands to move, his legs only twitching feebly. He can hear John shifting his weight behind him, as though about to walk away and the thought of being left while he is so vulnerable makes him gasp – not a good idea after the trauma his lungs have recently been subjected to. He begins to cough again, great wet, hacking coughs which go on so long that he can’t get breaths between them. As his vision starts to fade, going grey around the edges, he feels a strong hand rubbing between his shoulder blades and can hear John talking in his ear.

“Calm down Sherlock. Just try to relax and take shallow breaths. Your lungs are still hyper sensitive and coughing them up isn’t going to do anyone any good. Just calm down will you? C’mon mate, just breath gently and you’ll be ‘right.” John says soothingly as he once again rubs firm circles on Sherlock’s back, leaning over his stricken friend as he finally starts to listen to him and starts taking the shallow, quick breaths he needs to get oxygen back into his system. “Listen Sherlock, do you want me to take you to hospital so they can look after you...?”

Sherlock shakes his head minutely, still struggling to catch his breath, “No. No hospitals...please?” he wheezes.

It’s the _please_ that gets John. Sherlock so rarely says please or thank you and as irritated with his flatmate as he is, he still can’t bring himself to refuse him. “Ok mate, I’ll get one of Mycroft’s men to give me a hand getting you back to Baker Street and you can recover there alright?” John waits for Sherlock’s faint nod of acceptance before standing up and walking the few meters over to where Mycroft appears to have finished talking with his men, constantly looking over his shoulder to his friend lying on the floor.

Sherlock can almost hear the conversation John is having with his brother over the high, tinny ringing in his ears. He is still lying on his side, facing the large expanse of water and so can’t see the other people in the room, just hear the low murmur of voices and the occasional echo of a footfall on the tiles. He shuts his eyes as he waits, trying to get his scattered thoughts into some sort of order so he can process the night’s events. His thoughts are grey-tinged and floating just out of reach which frustrates Sherlock no end, he is used to being able to easily access his thoughts. He wonders if this is how normal people feel all the time, struggling to reign in the drifting thoughts in their brains and force them into coherency. He is concentrating so hard that he doesn’t hear the approach of someone from behind his prone body and when a hand lands gently on his shoulder he startles, his eyes flying open.

“Hey calm down – it’s just me” John says as he gently squeezes his shoulder. “I’ve managed to get us a lift back to the flat so now we’ve got to get you up and into the car.” Sherlock feels John’s arm reach underneath his shoulder and roll him slightly onto his back before slowly pushing him up into a sitting position in a manner that speaks of much professional experience. A dry, scratchy blanket is carefully put around his shoulders and John wraps his strong, warm arm underneath his shoulders and across his back. “Ok Sherlock?” John asks with concern, Sherlock’s eyes have closed again and he can feel his body shaking slightly under the unfamiliar touch. “Just relax, I’ve got you. We’re going to get up in a bit and between us we need to get you to the car just outside the side entrance ok?”

As Sherlock nods John begins to lever his slender friend up into a standing position, pausing while Sherlock gets his feet underneath him and allowing the dizziness to pass. They make their way slowly towards the exit, Sherlock’s feet unsteadily shuffling, barely taking his weight while John strains to hold his much taller friend up and steer them in the right direction. Finally they reach the open door of the black sedan which will be taking them back to Baker Street. John helps Sherlock into the back seat, gently shoving him over so he can sit next to him. The door closes and the driver, one of Mycroft’s nameless men, starts to pull away from the curb.

Sherlock lets his head fall back to rest on the headrest behind him and closes his eyes feeling more exhausted than he ever has in his entire life. He can feel the damp, cold sleeve of John’s cardigan brushing against his hand as it lies inert on the seat between them, hears the quiet breathing of his companion and the sounds of the traffic outside the car. He rolls his head slightly to the left and cracks open his eyes slightly to see John staring unseeing out the window, shivering slightly in his wet clothes, arms wrapped tightly across his chest. The street lights outside throws his friend’s tired, worn face into relief and Sherlock realizes that he owes his partner his thanks and gratitude for saving his life again.

“John...” Sherlock says in a hoarse whisper wincing as his throat protests. John turns his head to look at him.

“Are you ok?” he asks, running his eyes over Sherlock, “Can you breathe ok? Are you hurting anywhere?”

Sherlock shakes his head, “No, I just realized that now I owe you twice.” John looks puzzled, “You’ve saved my life twice now.”

John’s face heats up in a blush as his earlier irritation surfaces again, “Not that you really needed it this time huh? You and Mycroft had this sewn up – well almost anyway. No need for poor stupid John to get caught up in it eh?” He turns his head towards the window again, his anger obvious in the tight set of his shoulders.

“No John, you misunderstand.” Sherlock tries to explain but John is resolutely not looking at him and he is feeling weaker by the second. “Please believe me John, I didn’t know Mycroft was there until I heard him enter the swimming pool complex during my discussion with Moriarty. I had no idea how we were going to get out of there alive until then and if you hadn’t been so quick to understand my plan I doubt we would have managed to escape without further injuries.” John’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally and he took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry that I almost got you killed Sherlock. If I’d been a bit more careful when I was going to Sarah’s place I wouldn’t have been grabbed by Moriarty’s henchman, if I’d been more careful knocking you into the pool you would have had more air...” John says quietly, voice trembling slightly.

“John, you are in no way responsible for anything which occurred this evening. I am far from a proficient swimmer and I expect that had more to do with the incident in the pool than you did. As for Moriarty – he would have found a way to get to me through you whether you had gone out tonight or not.” Sherlock says seriously before smirking, “Now please let your unnecessary guilt go and concentrate your talents on the recovery of your patient if you will.”  With that, John’s frown lightened and a small smile twitched at his lips as he settled back in the seat and they made the rest of the journey in companionable silence.


	3. Chapter 3

“Right, you need to get into some dry clothes Sherlock – going to sleep in wet clothes isn’t going to help your recovery” John says as he helps his friend through the front door and up the stairs to their flat. “Can you sit on the couch for just 5 minutes while I get some clothes for you? Actually, where are your clothes? Y’know I’ve never been inside your bedroom before but shall I assume they will be obvious?”

“Ah, John...it may be better if you don’t go in there until I can disable the booby-trap...err I mean experiment I’ve got set up in there.” Sherlock says faintly as he is gently helped onto the leather couch in the living room. “I think I’ve got some clean clothes around here somewhere...” he continues vaguely. John starts poking at the piles of random books, dirty crockery and boxes of goodness-only-knows-what and finally comes across what looks like some clothes. He gingerly picks up one corner of the cloth which *crunches* alarmingly as it moves and is stuck quite firmly to a copy of last month’s British Medical Journal magazine.

“Hmm...Sherlock do I want to know what you’ve done to this to turn this shirt bright green and stick like glue to my magazine? Actually, on second thoughts I really don’t want to know! Just stay there and I’ll go and find something for you to change into ok?” John mutters to himself as he goes upstairs to his own room and quickly strips off and changes into a pair of dry jeans and a grey woollen jumper. Feeling the warmth of his dry clothes sink into his skin he rifles through his chest of drawers for something that will at least approximately fit his tall, slim flatmate, eventually coming up with a pair of very faded blue denim jeans, a little tight in the waist for him now, and a faded black t-shirt which has always been far too large for him. Snagging a dry towel off the rail in the bathroom on his way past John goes back downstairs and finds Sherlock hunched up on the couch, shivering a little, with the ratty blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.

“Come on mate, I’ve got some dry stuff for you to change into.” John says cheerfully, quietly a little concerned at his patient’s glazed eyes, slightly flushed cheeks and sluggish reactions. “Can you get yourself undressed Sherlock?” John asks, standing in front of him and watching his reactions closely.

“John?” Sherlock murmurs without raising his eyes to the man in front of him, “John? I’m not feeling right. I think something’s wrong...” his voice fades off as his shivers ratchet up a notch and his eyes start to droop.

“Ok, I’ll help then” John says as he deposits the dry clothes on the arm of the couch and swiftly kneels down in front of Sherlock. He gently untangles his friend’s clenched fingers from the edge of the blanket and eases it off his shoulders before starting to undo the buttons on his shirt. John is trying to maintain clinical detachment while he continues to undress his friend but as each inch of Sherlock’s chest is revealed he becomes more and more concerned. He has rarely seen his eccentric flatmate eat but had assumed that he was simply not the type to eat in front of other people, however judging by the rib bones visible on his now bare chest it would seem that he simply didn’t eat at all, or not very much at any rate. “Definitely something that we are going to change mate.” John mutters under his breath glancing up at Sherlock’s face to see his glazed eyes watching him as he slides the damp shirt sleeves down the long pale arms in front of him. Picking up the towel John briskly rubs it over the fragile torso and arms, pulling Sherlock into his chest so that he leans forward and John can dry his back where every vertebra is visible beneath the almost transparent white skin. Sherlock slumps against him and tucks his head the doctor’s neck tiredly, his nose icy cold against his warm throat. John resists the urge to wrap his arms around his suddenly fragile seeming friend and gently sets him upright again, stretches the neck of the old t-shirt over his head and then helps him thread his arms through. Gently lying him down on the couch he lifts each of Sherlock’s feet to remove his black leather shoes and sopping wet black socks revealing surprisingly delicate, pale feet and slender toes. Moving up to unbuckle his belt and then undoing his trousers John is careful to keep his touch cool and professional, though with Sherlock’s eyes as glazed as they are it is unlikely that he is aware of his current surroundings anyway. He struggles to slide the waistband of the damp trousers and the briefs beneath them over Sherlock’s bony hips and down his pale legs, carefully keeping his gaze fixed on his hands and not the flesh he has uncovered. Finally pulling them off his feet and rubbing the towel over his patient’s legs and then very briefly around his waist he feeds the long legs one at a time into the soft, faded denim of the jeans he brought down from his room. As he reaches Sherlock’s waist he realizes that he doesn’t have any dry underclothes for him, he pauses briefly considering, then is simply thankful that these particular jeans have a button fly – he doesn’t want to consider the added complication of avoiding a messy collision of sensitive skin and metal zippers – before doing up each button and turning his attention to warming his friend up.

Sherlock’s brain is not supplying him with any pertinent facts at the moment and if he were not so bone-weary that would bother him a lot more than it currently does. He can feel someone, John he assumes, moving his body around gently and the slow seeping warmth of dry clothing replacing clammy dampness. His head feels fuzzy and he can’t seem to stop the tremors wracking his body or his thoughts from flying around his head, darting from one topic to another. His mind keeps coming back to the man who is currently murmuring softly to him, words that don’t makes sense to his fever-wracked brain but comfort him nonetheless. He can feel John’s cool hand rest on his hot forehead and cheek briefly before he hears John move away from the couch. Sherlock can hear a pitiful whimper and wonders for a moment where it is coming from before it strikes him that it is actually himself making the noise.

“It’s ok Sherlock – I’m just in the kitchen getting you something to drink and some paracetamol &amp; ibruprofen to help your fever. I’ll be back in just a minute” John calls out across the flat as he hears Sherlock’s sounds of distress and can see him shifting around weakly on the couch as though trying to find him. His voice seems to calm the sick man slightly so John keeps up a running commentary as he fills a glass with water from the tap and walks carefully back to the couch. “Ok, I’m going to help you sit up and you need to take these tablets – they’ll help you feel better ok Sherlock?” John says gently as he slides one arm underneath Sherlock’s shoulders and levers him up before he slides his own body partially behind him to help support his weight. He helps Sherlock to put the tablets, one at a time, into his mouth and holds the glass up to his mouth, quietly murmuring encouragements as he tips the glass up and Sherlock swallows the pills. Carefully placing the glass on the lamp table beside the couch he rests his palm on Sherlock’s forehead again, almost unconsciously stroking the still damp sable curls as he waits for the medication to start taking effect.

“What am I going to do with you hmmm?” John says quietly to his companion, “I can’t let you sleep out here, this couch simply isn’t long enough for you or very comfy...I suppose you’ll have to sleep in my bed until you are lucid enough to tell me how to un-trap your bedroom.” John sighs deeply as he resigns himself to an uncomfortable night on the couch, or more likely the chair in his bedroom so he can keep an eye on his patient. “Well, I suppose there’s no time like the present eh Sherlock?”

Sherlock can feel the gentle fingers running through his hair, wondering vaguely if John is even aware that he is doing it, or that he is essentially talking to himself. When he feels John shift out from behind him he makes an effort to crack open his impossibly heavy eyelids to find out where his friend is going. He had been listening to his carer’s monologue but hadn’t been able to discern the individual words or any meanings in his deep, rumbling murmurs. John is talking more loudly now, trying to get his attention, holding him upright on the couch even as Sherlock is trying to lie back down. He can feel sleep clawing at him, trying to drag him under as John keeps talking to him and is now trying to drag Sherlock to his feet. Slowly, clumsily he somehow manages to stand, leaning heavily on his much shorter friend as he struggles for balance.

“Come on Sherlock, work with me here. I’m taking you to bed, just a couple more minutes and then you can sleep for as long as you like ok?” John coaxes the mostly asleep man as he half carries him through the living room and slowly up the stairs into his spartan bedroom. He manoeuvres Sherlock onto the double bed and arranges his long limbs under the chocolate brown sheets and matching duvet. He sits on the edge of the bed, running his rough, calloused hand over Sherlock’s forehead, cheek and neck to assure himself that the fever was abating somewhat. There are still two bright spots of colour high on Sherlock’s cheeks but his fever is less than it was and John considered that it is now at an acceptable level to allow his patient to sleep for a few hours.

He adjusts Sherlock’s hands on top of the bed covers and checks his pulse once more, just to reassure himself that he is still alive, that John hasn’t lost the man who has so quickly become such an important part of his life, his friend and his companion. As he begins to let go of Sherlock’s wrist he feels his hand being grabbed in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Don’t...” Sherlock slurs sleepily

“Don’t what Sherlock?” John asks quietly, drooping with exhaustion and the after effects of adrenaline himself.

“Don’t leave.” Sherlock says softly, “Please stay...tonight...” His voice trails off even as his grip remains strong on John’s hand.

“Ok mate, I’ll stay here. The bed’s plenty big enough for two.” John disentangles his fingers from Sherlock’s grip before quickly taking off his jumper and sliding between the sheets, keeping a careful distance between them, too shattered from the night’s events to feel more than the slightest twinge of discomfit at the current sleeping arrangements. He lies on his back and feels himself sliding quickly into the welcome embrace of oblivion. His last conscious thought is how warm Sherlock’s fingers are as they once again entwine with his own.


	4. Chapter 4

John is startled awake several hours later by an unexpected and sudden weight landing on his chest. With his heart pounding from the shock of being dragged from the depths of sleep so quickly he peers blearily around the familiar room, picking out faint outlines of furniture in the dim light that is seeping around the edges of the thermal-backed curtains covering the window. He rolls his head cautiously to the side and is only somewhat relieved to see that the weight still residing on his chest is merely his flatmate’s arm which he has flung out in his sleep. Sherlock is lying on his back in the middle of the double bed, his body pressed up close to John with his arms and legs spread wide. His left foot is poking out of the covers and dangling over the edge of the mattress, his right calf almost entwined with John’s own leg. Somehow he has managed to spread out in his sleep leaving John lying on a scant foot and a half of mattress right on the edge of the bed. John gingerly reaches up and gently lifts Sherlock’s arm from his chest before carefully repositioning it on the bed between them. He then disentangles his leg and tries, without success, to shift his body slightly further away from Sherlock’s. There really isn’t anywhere for him to shift to though and he is already dangerously close to falling off the edge of the bed. He sighs and looks over to his frustrating bedfellow accepting the close proximity for now - he can see that Sherlock is still sleeping heavily, his mouth open slightly, breath coming slowly and evenly, eyes flickering from side to side under pale eyelids as he dreams whatever it is that high functioning sociopaths dream about.

John feels surprisingly comfortable considering his scant sleeping space and the fact that he is sharing his bed with another human for the first time in many years. Of course he has been with women since joining the Army, usually a string of moderately successful dates culminating in several enjoyable hours spent in bed together before he is suddenly gripped by claustrophobia and has to leave. He tries to explain that he doesn’t feel comfortable inflicting his snoring on anyone but the excuses ring hollow even to his ears and the lady inevitably feels justifiably ill-treated and John doesn’t see them again. He has come to accept his solitary nights, to not share his private space with anyone else and not have to worry that his reoccurring nightmares will wake his bedfellow brings with it a sort of freedom. This solitary life can be lonely sometimes though, there are some nights when the dreams are too real and the memories won’t let him rest. Long hours in the pre-dawn darkness when all he desperately craves is human comfort, a reassuring touch or conversation to take his mind off the horrors he keeps locked away in the back of his head during the day. He used to pace frantically back and forth in the small half-way house bedsit, trying desperately to avoid going over the edge and descending into full blown insanity as memories and fears played on repeat in his head. He took to reciting passages from half-remembered medical textbooks over and over again just to keep himself together until the sun rose and he could try to face another day.

Once he moved into 221B Baker Street he found that the nightmares were less, usually because he was running around after his eccentric flatmate and subsequently when he did get a chance to sleep his body was so exhausted that he didn’t dream. On the occasions where his mental torments kept him from sleep he would wander downstairs and inevitably Sherlock would be awake, crouched on the couch pensively plucking the strings of his violin or conducting another madcap experiment in the kitchen. Sherlock was not interested in conversation during these times but for John just settling himself onto the lounge chair he had claimed as his own and observing his friend as he was absorbed in his tasks was enough to keep the nightmare thoughts at bay until the sun rose and another day began. He doesn’t know if Sherlock is aware of just how much those early morning hours spent in his mostly silent company means to him but suspects that his flatmate has little interest in the reasons John is awake at such an unsocial hour and providing he doesn’t distract him with chatter he doesn’t take further note of his presence.

At the moment though John is comfortably drowsy and his memories of the war are blissfully silent. He begins to relax back into sleep, feeling the warmth of the duvet, the softness of the mattress and hearing the faint sounds of London traffic underneath the quiet breathing of his companion. *THUD* John jumps as his body is once again rudely shocked back into full wakefulness by the sudden weight of Sherlock’s arm landing on his chest. John heaves a sigh and moves the offending limb off his body again, this time less gently, before rolling carefully onto his right side, his back towards his sleeping friend, shutting his eyes and trying to relax again. He can hear Sherlock shifting behind him, moving around irritably, can imagine too the slight frown on his face as he sleepily tries to spread out and his long limbs encounter John’s back.

“John...” Sherlock whimpers pathetically as he continues to shift around restlessly on the bed, “John... can’t find...where?...” his voice is soft and the words slur together, sounding childish and somehow vulnerable.

“Shhh Sherlock – I’m just here. Just go back to sleep, everything’s fine” John sooths as he rolls his tired body over towards his distressed friend, hauls himself up to lean against the bed head and then puts his palm against Sherlock’s frowning forehead. _His temperature is normal so it isn’t a fever which is bothering him_ John thinks as he absently strokes the tangled curls under his fingers trying to kick-start his tired brain into diagnosing the reason for his friend’s restlessness. He is dragged from his thoughts by a contented murmur and a strange sucking noise. He glances down and sees Sherlock gazing up at him from under his thick black eyelashes, pupils blown wide and no hint of the usual awareness behind them, his thumb firmly stuck in his mouth. John can’t keep the surprise off his face as he takes in this image of Sherlock; a man renowned for his cutting wit and for having a caustic barb for every occasion, sucking his thumb - complete with forefinger hooked over his nose - looking for all the world like a small, lost child in need of comfort. Something in John’s chest aches a little at the sight before him and before he can analyse his actions he shifts his body down the bed slightly and stretches his arm out towards the man lying beside him. Sherlock quickly snuggles close, curling his tall frame so that his head rests on John’s upper chest, his thumb remaining firmly ensconced in his mouth, making small noises of comfort as he wriggles a little and then settles, his eyelids slowly fluttering closed.

John lets his eyes rest on this strange, limpet-like version of his friend noticing how much younger he looks when he is asleep. His moist, pink lips are wrapped gently around the slender white digit in his mouth still sucking occasionally, his cheeks slightly flushed with warmth and his dark hair tangled in a wild mess, falling carelessly across his forehead and across John’s neck. The doctor wonders whether he is witnessing some type of mild regression, possibly brought on by the traumatic events of the past 24 hours or whether Sherlock is always this adorable on the rare occasions that he does actually sleep. _Oh! Did I really just think Sherlock was adorable?_ John wonders, startled by his own thoughts. Too tired to start psychoanalysing himself right now he pushes these potentially complicating ideas into a dark corner of his mind – that corner is getting pretty full &amp; some of those memories have teeth! - and tries relax back into sleep, oddly comforted by the heavy warmth that is pressed along his side and snuffling into his neck.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock is confused, something he is not accustomed to feeling and he finds that he likes it not at all. He has just woken from what feels like a very deep sleep, unusual in itself as he usually sleeps very lightly when he does eventually succumb to the mundane demands of his body, and things do not feel normal. Sherlock is no stranger to waking in odd places, an unfortunate side effect of pushing his annoyingly fragile body too hard and having it literally collapse wherever he happens to be standing when the exhaustion can no longer be denied. However it has never been the case that he has woken up in such close proximity to another human being. He begins to catalogue the physical sensations that his body is sending to his brain; the warmth of another body close up against his own, the rhythmic thud of another heartbeat under his cheek, the slight tickle of what he suspects is chest hair in his nostrils, the touch of unfamiliar clothing against his body. He can hear the quiet breaths of his living pillow, smell the musky scent of another man overlaid with the acrid tang of chlorine... _Ah!_

Suddenly the events of the previous evening come back to him in a rush; the pool, Moriarty, the explosion, the mind-numbing fear when he couldn’t get any air &amp; the wild chaotic thoughts as he felt his body shutting down due to oxygen deprivation. He also remembers, in bright flashes, lying on the side of the pool coughing his lungs up, John dragging him upright, the car ride home and then the blurry physical sensations of John dressing him then half-carrying him to bed.

So then it is John whom he is currently using as a body-pillow and the ex-soldier’s bed which he is lying on. Sherlock opens his eyes slowly, the room with its hideous flocked wall paper and sparse furnishings coming slowing into focus. He has his head resting on John’s upper chest and he can see his own palm lying gently on his bedfellow’s ribs, the thumb slightly wrinkled as though it has been immersed in water for some time. He can seen the dark sheets and duvet lying over them both and judging from the waning light coming from the curtained windows he estimates that it is well into the afternoon. John’s breathing is slow and steady indicating that he is still deeply asleep so Sherlock has no compunctions about staying precisely where he is for the moment, the deep sense of comfort he is experiencing from the close physical proximity is not something he would have been able to predict and he is curious as to whether it is something which will cease when John awakes. So he is content to lie there, almost motionless except for the slight twitching of his fingers in the sheets where they lay on his friend’s chest, his mind sorting through the recent events.

John stretches and arches his back slightly as he slowly awakens from the best sleep he has had since coming back from Afghanistan. He freezes as his stretching causes the heavy weight along his side and resting on his chest to move. He opens his eyes and looks cautiously down at his flatmate, half hoping and half afraid that those distinctive grey eyes will show every sign of awareness, unlike earlier when he woke. Sherlock has tilted his chin upwards and is looking at John, his eyes clear and aware.

“Er...Good morning?” John says quietly, unsure how to respond to this now-aware man lying on half his body looking far too comfortable.

“More likely afternoon I think” Sherlock says hoarsely, his throat still sore and scratchy from the chlorine. “Still, morning or afternoon a cup of tea would not go amiss” his lips quirking into a small smirk as John rolled his eyes.

“Fine” John huffs, a smile twitching his lips as he begins to extract himself from the warm weight of his companion. He is curiously reluctant to let this comfortable, if slightly strange, moment pass. He manages to free himself and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his back towards his friend as he searches the room with his eyes for a pair of socks to protect his bare feet from the no-doubt icy tiles in the kitchen. Finally locating a rolled pair lying beneath his bedside table he drags them over his feet before standing and pulling the grey jumper, which was so hastily discarded last night, over his head. He turns towards the bed to find Sherlock lying on his side watching him with a thoughtful expression on his face, “What?” John asks, running his hand over his face and looking down at his clothes to make sure he hasn’t put them on inside-out or something.

“Mmm? Oh nothing.” Sherlock says, as he rolls gingerly onto his back unable to suppress a wince at the change of position as his chest reminds him of all the bruises he is likely to be sporting.

“Er, right then” John says as he turns away slightly confused, “I’ll bring back some ibruprofen with your tea, it will help with the muscle stiffness” he says over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

As he waits for the kettle to boil, moving from one foot to the other as the cold from the tiles seeps through his socks, he ponders his newly awakened feelings for the mad genius who is currently lying upstairs in his bed. He feels oddly protective of his friend, in a way that he hasn’t felt for his comrades in arms or even his own irresponsible, alcoholic sister before. There is a part of him that wants to wrap Sherlock up and stop him from ever being hurt again even as he realizes that to do that would smother an essential part of what makes him so attractive..._Wait! Attractive? Since when do I find Sherlock attractive?! _John thinks startled, even as his traitorous brain helpfully flashes images from the past couple of months at him - when they first met in the lab at St Bart’s, every time they have shared a table at a cafe or restaurant, every moment when they have been catching their breath, exhilarated and standing perhaps a bit too close for social convention after a chase. Yes, Sherlock has always held more of John’s attention than would be usual for flatmates or even friends. Even still John doesn’t know what to do with this new piece of self-awareness and worries that he will ruin what friendship he has with Sherlock were he to change his behaviour – _But what if he feels the same?_ His mind whispers temptingly, but John firmly dismisses the thought, Sherlock is as close to asexual as he has ever seen and even if he wasn’t he wouldn’t be interested in a broken ex-soldier. John resolves to change nothing as he finishes making two cups of tea on auto-pilot and fishes the packet of painkillers down from the cupboard above the microwave before walking back to his room careful not to spill the tea.

John pushes the door open with his foot, his hands being full, and stops for a moment just staring at the sight before him. Sherlock is lying on his back in the middle of the bed, his long legs and arms flung out to overhang the mattress on both sides and the sheets, having been kicked off, are pooling around his slim waist. His face is turned towards the curtained window, his tousled hair spread out across John’s pillows and his long, white neck stretched out as if solely for his viewing pleasure. The sight of Sherlock wearing John’s own clothes is what makes him catch his breath though, the faded denim jeans clinging to his ridiculously long legs, the cuffs a full 4 inches too short and resting on his lower calf, the soft cotton of the tee-shirt lying loosely against the flat planes of his chest and slightly concave stomach. The man in the doorway wills himself to move forward and put the hot mugs down on the bedside table with only slightly trembling hands before sitting on the edge of the bed gingerly, taking a deep breath and gently prodding Sherlock’s arm with his finger.

“Hey, I’ve brought tea” he says as Sherlock retracts his limbs somewhat and rolls his head over to look at John balefully.

“I hurt” Sherlock whines, looking truly pitiful, “I tried to get up and I ache all over. Ergh, this is so _dull_!”

John rolls his eyes a little as he settles himself more securely on the bed and reaches over to help his pouting flatmate to shift up the bed and lean against the headboard. “Come on Sherlock, it isn’t that bad.” John cajoles as he stuffs a couple more pillows behind his patient’s back. “Here have some tea and take these” he says as he passes the mug of tea and two of the capsules over to him. He settles himself against the headboard next to his friend and takes a mouthful of his drink.

Sherlock sighs in relief as the hot liquid sooths his scratchy throat and he begins to feel something resembling normal again. He sits in silence as he drinks, considering the man next to him, this man who has risked his life for him, rescued him, brought him home, cared for him and even let him sleep in his bed, sleep _on_ him. He thinks that although he has never had a friend before that this must be what it is like, having someone who will put up with his eccentricities, his experiments, his lack of social graces and still want to be around him. He smiles a little to himself as he finishes the last of the tea and leans over his companion to put the mug carefully on the bedside table before cautiously stretching his arms above his head and twisting his neck from side to side to work out the kinks. His body is still feeling very stiff and his ribs feel bruised but at least he is able to move slightly more easily now as the painkillers take effect.

“You could probably do with having a bath” John suggests as he watches Sherlock stretching gingerly, “A long hot soak will help your muscles no end. Then if you can tell me how to un-trap your bedroom you can put on some clothes that actually fit you” he says with a smile as he appreciates how uncomfortable Sherlock must be feeling in clothes that are patently not his own.

Sherlock smirks as he looks down and seems to notice for the first time the long length of calf that is exposed by the short leg of the jeans he is wearing. “Ah yes, it appears that one thing we are not compatible in is our clothing” he says wryly as John chuckles. Sherlock suddenly realizes that he rather likes to hear John laugh and that somehow it has become very important to him that it happens regularly.

John finishes his drink and levers himself out of bed again, “I’ll get the bath started alright?” he says as he leaves the room. Sherlock leans his head against the wall behind the bed and closes his eyes just for a moment, surprised at how exhausted he is still feeling. He must have dozed off because it seems like a mere minute later that John is back in the room and gently shaking his shoulder.

“Come on mate, the bath is ready for you now.” John steps back from the bed as Sherlock blinks sleepily before stiffly moving to the edge of the bed. He cringes as the cold floorboards make contact with his bare feet and then painfully hauls himself upright, John quickly darting to his side to provide support if he needs it. The taller man finds himself reaching a hand out and placing it on John’s shoulder even though he is perfectly balanced, just desiring the physical contact - a new experience for him. He has always shunned physical contact with other people, only occasionally unbending enough to give a perfunctory hug in greeting to Mrs Hudson or shaking a hand as social custom dictates, finding it unpleasant to be overwhelmed by so much information. The mere act of shaking someone’s hand floods his senses with such a massive input of data that it is all too easy to become distracted and unfocussed, two things Sherlock cannot abide. Touching John though is quite different. He knows John very well, understands how his mind works for the most part and there is an element of comfort in his touch, instead of the rush of data it is more like a reaffirmation of what he already knows.

With these thoughts still in his mind he allows John to lead him towards the shared bathroom where the scent of his flatmate’s muscle-relaxant shower gel is carried on the steam escaping from the half-open door. John manoeuvres him into the small room, sitting him on the closed lid of the toilet before stepping back as far as he can before bumping into the back of the door which has closed behind him.

“Can you get yourself undressed and in the bath Sherlock?” John asks “I can wait just outside the door until you are in the water if you’d prefer?” He doesn’t want to crowd the proud man sitting in front of him but he can see how pale he has become following the brief walk from the bedroom to the bathroom and won’t leave him entirely unattended if there is even the smallest chance that he could slip or fall and hurt himself further.

“Yes, yes of course” Sherlock says irritably, feeling unaccountably cross with his body’s weakness, “I am quite certain I will be able to disrobe myself and climb into the bath without assistance Doctor.” He raises his hands to his shirt, plucking at the fabric as if to indicate that he is capable of pulling it over his head.

“Okay Sherlock, I’ll just wait outside then. If you need anything just shout yeah?” John says lightly, trying to hide the concern he is feeling as he steps away from the door and moves into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind him.

He can hear the stubborn man shifting around behind the door in front of him, can hear his stifled moan as he stretches his torso too far trying to pull the tee-shirt over his head, can hear his breaths becoming more and more shallow as he struggles to remove his clothes. John doesn’t want to barge in and take over unless he has to – after spending so many long weeks recovering in hospital after Afghanistan he very much understands the frustration of finding your body not working as it should and the terror of feeling so utterly helpless as well as the irritation of requiring help with every little thing. Still if Sherlock doesn’t say something soon he is going to walk through that door regardless and...

“John?” A small, half sobbed sound comes from the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” John says as he pushes the door open carefully and slips inside again. Sherlock is sitting almost exactly as he left him 5 minutes ago, his clothes still on and his shoulders slumped dejectedly. He doesn’t look at John as the man moves closer, he has his eyes determinedly facing downwards and his face turned towards the fuzzy blue bathmat lying on the linoleum near his feet. “Will you let me help you Sherlock?” John asks quietly, making it sound as though Sherlock would be doing him a favour to let him help, a ruse Sherlock sees through immediately of course but appreciates the attempt nonetheless.

Sherlock nods almost imperceptibly and John kneels down in front of his friend, trying to catch his eye as he begins to lift the hem of the tee-shirt up over Sherlock’s chest and the gently over his head before sliding it off his arms. “You’ve got to give your body a chance to heal Sherlock.” He murmurs gently as he tosses the shirt behind him and starts to undo the buttons on the jeans, “You almost died last night, you can’t expect your body to jump straight back into business as usual – Come on stand up for me” he continues as he half lifts his sullen flatmate into a somewhat upright position and drags the jeans down his legs before steadying him as he steps out of them. “Alright, into the bath with you” he coaxes, like he would with a child which is exactly what Sherlock reminds him of at the moment with his pout, long gangly limbs and sulky body language.

Sherlock releases a sigh as his sore body is enveloped by the steaming water, feeling the tension in his shoulders and chest ease as he leans back against the end of the tub. He lets his eyes drift close as he leans his head back, suddenly feeling less ashamed of his body’s weakness as John’s platitudes continue to wash over him. He bends his knees to allow his upper torso to sink further into the hot water, stopping only when he can feel the tiny ripples lapping at his throat, and opens his eyes. He meets John’s concerned gaze over the edge of the enamelled tub and feels his lips lift into an almost smile, which is almost immediately echoed by John’s much more convincing smile as he leans forward with a damp, warm face flannel and begins to gently clean the dried sweat and residual chlorine from his forehead.

“Don’t get used to this” John says jokingly as he dips the cloth into the water to rinse it before squeezing it out and applying it to the rest of Sherlock’s face. “Once you are up and about under your own steam you can kiss your personal slave and bathroom attendant goodbye and you’ll just have to wash yourself just like the rest of us!” He grins as Sherlock’s lips quirk into that half-smile John has come to recognise as his amused smile. John rinses the flannel again before carefully squeezing it out over his friend’s hair, running his fingers through the damp curls as the water runs off and trickles down Sherlock’s neck, watching as his friend relaxes into his touch and so he continues to stroke the smooth, now very wet, hair for longer than is strictly speaking necessary. Eventually though his knees protest his awkward position beside the bath and he reluctantly draws himself up to his feet and stretches before looking down at his dozing companion. Sherlock looks incredibly debauched lying there in the bath with his knees drawn up, floating piles of bubbles conserving his modesty and his eyes languidly resting on John’s face. The image in front of him is enough to make John blush suddenly before picking up a towel from the nearby rail and fiddling with it to hide his reaction.

“So are you going to tell me how to get into your room so I can go and get some clothes for you?” He says abruptly, suddenly uncomfortably aware of what this could look like, of what he would like it to look like perhaps.

“Mmm...” Sherlock blinks and faces away briefly before sliding his grey eyes back to John who is still standing next to the bath looking unaccountably nervous, “I think perhaps it would be best if we wait until I am able to dismantle the experiment myself – in the interests of not having Mrs Hudson complain about holes in the walls and charred furniture of course” he says smoothly, lifting himself up and preparing to get out of the rapidly-cooling water.  “Pass me that towel would you John?”

As Sherlock unsteadily clambers out of the tub and only staggers a little as the blood rushes away from his head. John catches his arm and throws the bath towel around his shoulders before stepping back and trying very hard not to look at the acres of white skin exposed by the small towel.

“And what do you suggest you wear in the meantime Sherlock? – it is the middle of February in case you had forgotten and the heating _still_ hasn’t been repaired.” John asks a little impatiently as he watches his frustrating flatmate dry himself with varying levels of success.

“Could I not perhaps borrow some of your clothes John? – Ah thank you” Sherlock says as John steps forward and rubs the towel over the space between his shoulder blades he was having trouble reaching.

“Well you could if you weren’t abnormally tall – nothing I own would come close to fitting you Sherlock!” John says exasperated not just a little surprised at his actions a moment earlier.

“Well then I shall just have to wear clothes which do not quite fit then... I’m sure my pyjama pants are lying around somewhere and one of your abysmally old-fashioned jumpers will suffice.” Sherlock states simply as he wraps the towel around his hips and sits a little unsteadily on the toilet seat again, arms and legs shaking slightly from the exertion.

John sighs heavily before throwing the other towel over Sherlock’s shoulders to keep him warm and leaves the bathroom in search of clothes. As he tromps down the stairs he wonders just how deliberately difficult Sherlock is being and how much John is going to let him get away with before putting his foot down. It is going to be a very long couple of days while Sherlock’s body heals and John can already see himself being a virtual slave to his friend’s increasing boredom.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been three days since John dragged Sherlock back to 221B from the ill-fated swimming pool and John was in serious danger of losing his cool.

The first day of Sherlock’s recovery John had been solicitous and attended his every whim without a moment of hesitation. He worried and fretted, taking care to ensure his charge ate and was comfortable – he even _washed_ him for God’s sake!

The second day (after Sherlock had cunningly convinced him to share his bed with him for a second night claiming to be too physically weak to dismantle his bedroom experiment) John had done his level best to keep his friend entertained as his body recovered and he slept less. He brought him items from all over the flat, sent text messages for him, cooked for him - he even went to the shops for a pound of calf’s liver for one of Sherlock’s unexplainable experiments (though he did put his foot down and insisted that experiments were _not_ to be carried out in his bed).

By day three John found his patience being fully tested as his almost recovered flatmate basically refused to leave the couch and demanded near constant entertainment, usually in the form of watching John do ever increasingly menial tasks for him while he sat back and “observed”. After finally convincing Sherlock to un-trap his bedroom, which he seemed to accomplish with suspicious ease, John felt that at last he would have some respite and began to look forward to the time in the evening when he could gracefully retire to his own bed without the nagging sense of guilt that he was leaving his patient vulnerable by not waiting on him hand and foot.

That night, several hours after he had said goodnight to his irritating flatmate, he lay in bed trying to fall asleep wondering why he couldn’t seem to drop off. He was physically exhausted from the previous days caring for Sherlock, his brain was almost flat-lining with weariness but he simply couldn’t seem to get comfortable enough to sleep. He tossed and turned, ending up so twisted in his sheets that he felt like some type of Egyptian mummy. The bed seemed too big, too empty and too cold. It didn’t seem likely that in just two nights he had become accustomed to sharing his bed with Sherlock but something was stopping his body from relaxing into sleep and in the spirit of self-honesty John deduced that Sherlock’s absence was the most probable cause. He could hear Sherlock moving around downstairs, in the kitchen by the sounds of clinking glass-wear, probably setting up some type of new and disturbing experiment on the kitchen table.

John stretched out on his back, shaking out the covers and untangling his legs from the sheets. He closed his eyes determinedly and forced himself to lay still, his hands resting low on his abdomen. He deliberately directed his thoughts to the image which had saved his sanity many times in the Afghan desert, on the hot nights when sleep was the only thing he desired and the one thing he couldn’t seem to grasp.

The dark haired, busty woman who appeared in his mind smiled seductively as she moved towards him. She knelt in front of him her vibrant green eyes looking up at him from beneath thick, black lashes as her red-painted lips moved unerringly towards his now straining erection. John wrapped his palm firmly around himself and began to slowly pump his fist as his fantasy woman took him into her mouth. It had been so long since John had found sexual release - having a flatmate as observant as Sherlock tended to make one less than cavalier about attending those more private needs.

He felt the tendrils of heat start to coil in his stomach, his back arched slightly as his grip tightened and the strokes became faster. The woman in his mind’s eye was taking him further into her mouth now, fondling his balls with her long pale fingers, her tongue sliding up over the tip of his cock. John was getting close now, heels digging into the mattress and breath catching as his fantasy woman became blurred, overlaid with a more slender figure, decidedly male, still with dark hair but pale grey eyes looking up at him rather than green. John’s eyes slammed open as the image of his flatmate’s mouth wrapped securely around his cock pushed him over the edge and he came with a muffled moan, the taste of Sherlock’s name on his lips.

Sherlock had been pacing in the living room and kitchen downstairs, picking things up only to immediately discard them. He was convinced that the only reason he felt so restless was the lack of cases to solve currently and had nothing at all to do with the man who was sleeping in the room above him. Finally he lost the battle within his own mind and found himself standing silently just outside John’s closed bedroom door, straining to hear John’s breathing through the timber.

“Sherlock” John’s voice was barely audible through the closed door but his name was unmistakeable, as was the moan which had preceded it. Sherlock hesitated, unsure whether to enter the room, not wholly confident that he had read the situation correctly. He thought John was either dreaming and moaning in distress or he was aroused and touching himself while thinking of him. Sherlock considered that the latter very unlikely as John had never shown any homosexual tendencies previously. However, having lived with the ex-soldier for some months he knew the pattern that his nightmares usually took and that they usually woke him with a strangled scream or sudden gasp, not the long drawn-out moan he had heard a moment ago. Undecided, he waited to hear if any further noises issued from the room and finally, hearing only the brief shifting of John’s body on the bed sheets before silence reigned again, Sherlock stepped away from the door and made his way quietly back downstairs.

Sherlock’s mind was buzzing with the possible implications of what he had just heard. _When all other conclusions are proven false and only the impossible remains, the only logical answer must be the impossible _he thought, paraphrasing one of his brother’s lessons from long ago when they were both children and Sherlock still held Mycroft in high enough regard to learn from him.

So was it possible that John was attracted to him? Enough to fantasise about him while relieving his sexual frustration? Sherlock shook his head, irritated as always at the unpredictable nature of human emotions.

He thought back through the previous months, going over all their interaction trying to find any clue which might indicate a romantic attachment. John had always been attentive to him certainly, always watching him closely, even when he wasn’t working, his eyes flickering across a room to make contact with him every minute or so. Sherlock suspected that John wasn’t even aware that he did it, or that his body subconsciously turned towards Sherlock no matter where he was in a room. Since the incident at the swimming pool John had been solicitous and kind, catering to his every need and demand with only the slightest hesitation and frustration showing towards the end of his convalescence when in truth Sherlock was only being lazy and demanding rather than too weak to attend matters himself.

He wondered how far John’s attachment to him could be pushed, just what he could convince his friend to do. If he were to test his theory it might give him some more definite answers and Sherlock always required conclusive answers before making a decision. He resolved that in the morning he would find out just how far Dr Watson could be pushed. With a smirk Sherlock threw himself down onto the couch and pulled out his violin, bracing it against his raised knees as he plucked the strings absently, formulating his plans.

Upstairs John slept deeply, curled onto his side with a faint smile on his lips and his breathing slow and even, complete unaware of his devious flatmate’s plans for him come morning.


End file.
